Once Upon a Weekend
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-S5 "Straw Dog". She's not the the sort of woman who cries easily... Rated T for language. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _Happy birthday to Got Tea and missDuncan, April 2017. xx_

* * *

 **Once Upon a Weekend**

by Joodiff

* * *

Generally, Grace Foley is not the kind of woman who is easily dismayed, nor does she often allow herself the release of such a sudden and intense emotional outburst, but standing alone in her tiny front garden as dusk darkens inexorably into dark, she's very close to giving in and simply bursting into tears. It's been a long and difficult week, one filled with trauma and restless ghosts, and never has the old maxim about the final straw being the one to break the camel's back seemed more apposite. The shrill sound of her phone ringing in her cardigan pocket is both unwelcome and unexpected, breaking into her fierce struggle for control as it does. Answering its abrupt summons is an automatic action, one she has no chance to think about, but she's very aware of the dangerous wobble in her voice as she grinds out, "Yes?"

"Grace," a deep and very familiar male voice responds. "I know it's Saturday, but – "

"What is it?" she demands, cutting him short. It's curt and uncharacteristic, and Grace knows it, but she really isn't in the mood to attempt to feign even the thinnest veneer of the sort of unflappable serenity she's generally renowned for.

"Bad moment?" Boyd inquires, his tone softening a discernible fraction.

 _Understatement,_ Grace thinks. She really is right on the brink of tears now, and can't help despising herself for it. The perceived weakness makes her more savage than she intends as she retorts, "What do you want, Boyd?"

"Well, I _thought_ you might like to know that the hospital just called me," his reproachful-sounding voice says in her ear, "but if you don't want to hear how Keogh's doing…"

Her vision blurs as the insistent tears start to brim in earnest. Clears a little as the very first start to spill. Throat tight with the effort of suppressing the traitorous sobs, she manages to mutter, "Sorry."

"Hm." A second's pause. "He's been moved out of intensive care and onto a general ward."

"That's wonderful," she manages, her voice rough, and though it truly is the best possible news, the merciless tears start to fall faster, tickling her skin slightly as they go.

"Grace?" Another pause, then a rather reluctant, "Are you okay?"

"Not really," Grace snuffles, clumsily searching her pockets for a tissue or a handkerchief and finding none. It's not the expected response, she's sure, but she finds that she doesn't care.

"What's the matter?" Boyd asks, genuine concern now evident in his voice. "Grace…?"

Struggling for a calm she most certainly doesn't feel, she manages, "Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry. Thank you for letting me know about Kevin."

"Talk to me," he insists. "What's going on?"

Under different circumstances she would snort at the inherent irony of his words. He's one of the least talkative people she knows, at least where emotions are concerned. A silent, stoical sufferer, and a psychologist's worst nightmare. As it is, however, Grace is far more concerned with her own current mental state than his. Before she can stop them, the words start to tumble out. "I'm such an idiot… I've managed to lock myself out of the damned house… The neighbours have got a spare key, but they're out… God knows how long I'll have to wait for a locksmith, and – "

"Calm – "

" _Don't_ tell me to calm down," she snarls into the phone, the uncharacteristic spike of anger doing nothing to stop the hot tears that are still rolling down her cheeks. "Don't you bloody _dare_ , Boyd, or I swear I'll…" She leaves the threat hanging, unable to think of a suitable penalty.

"All right," he says, and his voice now holds the steady, decisive note she's so used to hearing at work. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course," she manages in a hoarse, rebellious whisper.

"You don't need a locksmith," he tells her, "all you need is a tame police officer with a proven track record of breaking and entering. I'm at my brother's place in Crouch End, so it won't take me more than ten, fifteen minutes to get to you. I'll just – "

Not sure why she objects to what's inevitably coming next, Grace tries to forestall him. "Boyd – "

"I'm not offering you a choice, Grace, I'm _telling_ you what's going to happen. Sit tight and I'll be with you soon."

"But – " she tries again, but finds herself talking to dead air. Relief and irritation fight a brief and bloody battle, but quickly declare a grudging truce, leaving her tearful and sniffling miserably as the very last of the evening's light fades away.

-oOo-

Boyd's silver SUV rolls to a gentle stop at the kerb outside her house just thirteen minutes later. Sitting on the low front wall feeling more like a pathetic waif and stray than an independent, successful professional woman, Grace doesn't bother getting up as the sound of the engine dies away. Infuriating as Peter Boyd can be – which is pretty damn infuriating – she would be the first to admit that there's always something tremendously reassuring about his gruff, no-nonsense compassion and his tall, solid presence. He alights from the far side of the car and walks round the bonnet towards her, and to his credit he looks neither smug, nor amused by her predicament. For some absurd reason Grace is momentarily surprised by how casually dressed he is. Well, he would be, of course, she chides herself. It's the weekend, after all, and he's off duty. Off with the expensive business suit and on with the battered old jeans. Makes sense.

His opening gambit is a simple, "You all right?"

"Yeah," she says, finally getting to her feet. It's a subdued but honest answer. The tears have stopped, and now she just feels tired and wrung-out. And foolish. Very, very foolish.

Boyd regards her in contemplative silence for a moment, and she wonders what he thinks of what he sees. He's not the only one who's comfortably, even sloppily dressed. His quiet scrutiny does nothing to improve Grace's mood. She's fighting the ridiculous urge to apologise for her somewhat unkempt appearance when he asks, "So what happened?"

She sighs, still annoyed with herself. "Oh, someone rang the doorbell – one of those charity collectors – and when they'd gone, I noticed that the local kids had been dropping litter over my wall again. I went to pick it up, and the breeze must have caught the front door. Stupid."

"It happens," he says with a dismissive shrug. "I take it the back door's locked?"

Soothed a little by his pragmatic calm, Grace offers a tiny, half-hearted smile. "Afraid so – I take the unsolicited weekly crime prevention lecture very seriously."

He gives her a derisive look. "Of _course_ you do."

"Besides," she adds, "I think my fence-climbing days are well and truly over, don't you?"

"Oh, I dunno…" A sly, easy wink, immediately followed by, "Your bedroom fanlight's open."

Grace follows his gaze upwards. He's right, but instead of agreeing, she challenges, "How do you know it's my bedroom?"

"Intuition."

Intrigued despite the situation, she says, "Oh?"

Boyd shrugs again. "You're not keen on the dark, and there aren't any street lights at the back."

"You should be a detective," she tells him. A poor attempt at humour. "Anyway, it doesn't help, does it? Even if someone in the street could lend us a ladder, there's no way you could fit through that tiny little gap."

"Who said _I_ was intending to go up the ladder?"

"Well I'm not doing it," she retorts, leaving no room for negotiation. "I'm not keen on heights, either, in case you'd forgotten."

The expected barb at her expense doesn't come. Instead, Boyd moves past her and approaches the – closed – front door. A quick examination and a satisfied grunt precedes, "Standard Yale lock. Not difficult to pick."

"I worry about the nature of your hidden talents sometimes, Boyd," Grace says, and can't help shivering as the evening breeze picks up again. A definite chill is beginning to descend on the city.

"Cold?" he inquires, glancing at her.

"Mm," she nods. "If I'd known I'd be standing around out here, I would've picked up my coat on the way out."

"Here," Boyd says, starting to shrug out of his jacket before she can utter a single word of protest, "put this on while I go and see what I've got in the car that'll spring this lock."

Half of her wants to resist, to tell him she's not in any need of such old-fashioned gallantry, but the other half of her – the half that's cold and weary and depressed – welcomes the sudden weight of the jacket that she finds draped unceremoniously around her shoulders. The lining is warm from the heat of his body, and the outer leather is surprisingly soft and supple from what she guesses is many years of wear. Grace opens her mouth to thank him, but Boyd's already back at the car, his loose white tee-shirt stark under the harsh artificial street lighting. Silent, she watches as he opens the passenger door, as he stoops and begins to rummage through the glove compartment.

She doesn't need anyone to tell her that he's a good man at heart, for all his blistering impatience and volatile temper. No, she knows that very well. Unorthodox in his methods at times, certainly, and far too fond of doing things his own way, consequences be damned, but a good man. Decent, and fiercely loyal to friends, family and colleagues alike. It wouldn't have occurred to him, she knows, not to attempt to help her once he became aware of her plight. Too-recent memories stir, tightening her chest even as she attempts to dispel them. Compared to facing down an unhinged man armed with a loaded shotgun, this evening's assistance might seem rather… paltry, but in a way it means almost as much to her.

Before her thoughts can head any further in that direction, Boyd slams the car door and returns to her side. He spares her a triumphant grin as he then bears down on the front door, his stride purposeful. Deciding it's wise to follow, she does so, saying, "Try not to do any damage."

He looks over his shoulder at her. "I'm going to pick the bloody lock, Grace, not attempt to break the damn thing down."

"Even so."

She tries to peer past him, but it's still not quite possible to see exactly what he's doing. "Will it still work afterwards? The lock?"

"Have some bloody faith, woman." A few more moments of muttering and obscure manipulations pass, and then, quite suddenly, there's a discernible click and the door swings gently ajar. "There you are. Open Sesame."

"I'm impressed," Grace admits, "and also just a little bit perturbed."

"Good," Boyd says, pushing the door open wide and stepping back to allow her access. "After you. I think you at least owe me a cup of coffee, don't you?"

It's difficult to see how she could refuse. Still, she is half-hearted as she agrees. "Come in, then. Ignore the mess. I haven't had much of a chance to tidy up what with one thing and another."

"Do I look like your mother-in-law?" he asks.

"I don't have a mother-in-law," she points out, switching on the hall light and handing him back his jacket. "Not anymore."

-oOo-

"We all make mistakes," Boyd says, somehow managing to make the hackneyed old phrase sound both wise and compassionate. "If Taylor somehow neglected to mention that he was married…"

"I should have asked," Grace insists, staring into the depths of her mug because it's easier than meeting his steady gaze. What little remains of her coffee is lukewarm at best, but she takes a small sip anyway, for once relishing its uncompromising bitterness. "You can dress it up all you like, Boyd, but the fact still remains that I was sleeping with a married man."

"So maybe you were a little… naïve. Weren't we all at that age?"

"I don't know," she says, finding the willpower to look at him, "were we?"

Boyd grimaces. "Christ, you wouldn't believe some of the scrapes I got myself into in the dim and distant, Grace."

Unable to prevent a small smile despite the glum, reflective mood hanging over the brightly-lit kitchen, she says, "Actually, I would. Something about the Chief Superintendent's daughter when you were a fresh-faced young DC at Rotherhithe…?"

"Salacious gossip," he tells her with an impatient wave of his hand, "and anyway, we're not talking about _me_ , we're talking about _you_."

She sighs at his persistence, more weary than irked. Changing the subject, she says, "I'm sorry about earlier – on the phone. Accidentally getting locked out of my own damn house was just about the final straw. I'm fine, Boyd, really."

"Except you're not, are you?" he retorts. "And no-one would expect you to be, least of all me. What Hoyle did – "

"Please," she interrupts, polite but firm, "I really _don't_ want to talk about it."

"All right," is Boyd's gruff response, "but you're a damned psychologist, Grace – you understand better than anyone the effect going through such a traumatic experience has on someone."

"Which just means I should be better equipped to cope with it."

"Bollocks," he says, still brusque. He leans back in his chair, surveys her across the width of the small kitchen table for a few moments. "I'm giving you a week's compassionate leave, starting Monday; longer if you need it."

Startled by his sudden decision, Grace blinks. "Boyd – "

"It's not optional, Grace," he says. "My unit, my orders. And don't think I won't kick you straight back out of the building if you try to sneak in anyway, because I will. Without a single moment's hesitation."

"I'd much rather be at work than sitting around here brooding," she complains.

"Go away for a few days, then," is his pragmatic reply. "Go up north to barbarian country and visit your family. Or book a flight to Rome and go to the _Parco della Musica_ like you've been promising yourself ever since it bloody opened. I don't actually care what you do, but I don't want to see you anywhere near the bunker until you've got your head together. Understood?"

He means it, Grace realises. He really does mean it, and she knows her chances of getting him to change his mind now are very slim indeed. More or less zero, in fact. Not bothering to hide her annoyance, she says, "Interesting terminology, Boyd."

"Whatever," is the dismissive reply. "Well? Are we absolutely clear on this?"

It's a direct challenge. One Grace knows better than to meet. At least immediately and head on. Confrontation only makes him even more obstinate, but there are subtler, if more time-consuming ways to subvert his will. "Oh, I suppose so. I'm not happy about it, though."

Boyd folds his arms. "That's a pity; the happiness of my minions is important to me."

Grace snorts, both at his deliberate terminology and at the outrageous claim itself. Hits back with, "Don't tell me – you've finally read all those 'Guide to Good People Management' leaflets HR keep sending you?"

"I took them home, at least. They make great firelighters."

She chuckles at his deadpan expression, then sobers and sighs again. "You've been a good friend to me, Boyd. Thank you."

"Steady. That's coming dangerously close to the kind of maudlin crap that brings me out in a rash, Grace."

"Sorry." Getting to her feet, she asks, "Another coffee? Or are you supposed to be somewhere…?"

Dark eyes track her as she moves. "Well, there's one of those God-awful supermarket meals with my name on it waiting at home in the fridge, but aside from that…"

"Microwave meal for one, and football on the telly?" Grace guesses.

"Just about sums it up, yeah."

"I'll put the kettle on," she says, busying herself with the task in question. As she rinses their used mugs and fetches the milk from the fridge, she casts the occasional sideways glance at Boyd as he lounges at his ease, idly flicking through her so-far unread daily paper. She wonders if he feels as at home as he looks, or whether it's just pretence. Decides it's almost certainly the latter. In her experience, Peter Boyd doesn't relax easily. She's not used to seeing him beyond the strict confines of work, however, so perhaps he really is as comfortable sitting in her kitchen as he appears to be. Unlikely, but possible.

He's too big, though, Grace decides, the irrelevant thought coming from nowhere. Even seated, he seems to be all broad, square shoulders and long, untidily-arranged limbs. Takes up far too much room in the relatively small space. Still, given the chance, she could eventually get used to it, she's sure. Won't happen, of course. Sadly. Her occasional wistful daydreams about all the things that might be possible if they were different people in a different situation are never going to amount to anything.

She jumps when he suddenly says, "A police officer, eh?"

Not able to follow his mysterious train of thought, she stares at him as she asks, "What?"

"Harry Taylor," Boyd elucidates, still looking at the newspaper. "He was a police officer."

"Obviously," she says with a puzzled frown. There's no immediate response, so she adds, "What's that got to do with anything?"

Maybe he detects the subtle undertone of warning in her voice, because when he looks up at her, his expression is bland. "I suppose it just surprises me a bit, that's all. I never had you pegged as the type to get involved with someone at work."

"No?" Grace frowns, not sure what to make of the comment. Whether it's as casual as it appears to be. "Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know…" he says with a nonchalant shrug. "Too… complicated… maybe? Inadvisable? That sort of thing."

Perceptive to an uncomfortable degree. When it suits him. Trying to keep her tone neutral, she says, "We don't choose who we fall in love with, Boyd."

"No," he agrees, and for moment she fancies there's a hollow note in his voice. "No, we don't. And now you're going to tell me that we should all do our best to learn from our mistakes, I suppose?"

Aware of her own shortcomings in the area under discussion, Grace shakes her head. "No, not in this case. We should, I agree, but most of us don't. Not when it comes to matters of the heart."

Boyd's response is quick. "So you'd do it again? Sleep with a colleague, I mean?"

"I didn't say that," she retorts. It's not a topic she wants to discuss with anyone, much less _him_.

"So you _wouldn't_ , then?"

One thing about Boyd – he can be relied on to ask the most unsettling of questions at the most awkward of moments. Busying herself tidying the already tidy kitchen counter, she says, "I didn't say that, either. That sort of thing… it's entirely circumstantial, isn't it?"

"Right person, wrong place?"

"Maybe," Grace agrees, with a cautious glance in his direction. "Something like that, anyway. You tell me – you've done exactly the same thing. Your little affair with Jess Worrall? Or are you going to tell me that was all 'salacious gossip', too?"

"You know it wasn't," Boyd says, his gaze intent, "but that was rather different. We weren't working on the same team, for a start."

It's her turn to go on the offensive. "You were working in the same building for the same employer, though."

"Granted."

"And you were married. Like Harry." It's an effort to keep the bitterness out of her tone.

"That was completely different, too," he argues, but with less intensity than she expects. "My marriage was already well and truly on the rocks, and Jess knew all about my… home situation."

' _My wife doesn't understand me'_ , she thinks, wondering when she became so cynical. "You don't have to justify yourself to me, Boyd."

His gaze is steady, unflinching. "I know, and I'm not trying to; I'm simply stating the facts. My bloody wife was screwing around with all and sundry long before I ever set eyes on Jess. In hindsight, I should never have married her."

"Why did you, then?" Grace asks, but she already knows the answer. They talked about it once, late one night sitting in his car after a particularly harrowing investigation into a case of sustained domestic violence that resulted in the eventual murder of the perpetrator. Husbands, wives. Partners. Love and hate, and everything in-between.

"You _know_ why," Boyd confirms, oblivious to her thoughts. "She was four months gone when we got engaged."

"You loved her, though," she says, more reflective than confrontational now.

He nods. "Yes I did. More's the bloody pity. It would've been a lot easier all round if I hadn't."

A moment of brooding silence falls between them, one Grace breaks with a rueful, "Relationships are difficult, aren't they?"

He grunts noncommittally, obviously unwilling to be drawn further on the subject. "They certainly can be. Kettle's boiled."

Hiding a knowing smile, she returns to making coffee. Far stronger and darker for him than for her. She doesn't know how he can bear it. Maybe after thirty odd years of drinking both police canteen tea and foul vending machine coffee his tastebuds have become immune to such things. Putting the mugs down on the table, she returns to her chair. "Do you _really_ want me to take some time off?"

"Yes," Boyd confirms, his resolute gaze level and unyielding. "I really do. It's not just the stuff with Hoyle and Keogh, is it? It's Taylor and… everything else… surrounding the Greene case. That's a lot to process, Grace, and trying to do it while at work… Well, it's not as if you stack shelves for a living, is it?"

"Do as I say, not as I do?" she inquires, knowing it's dangerous territory to trespass on.

"If you like," he says, his tone making it quite clear that continuing to argue will get her nowhere. "Stop looking at it as some sort of bloody penance and just make the most of some unexpected – paid – time off, that's my advice."

"And if something crops up at work and you need my input?"

"We'll manage. No-one's indispensable, Grace."

"Including you?" she needles.

Boyd's gaze still doesn't waver. "Including me."

"Why have you got some much annual leave accrued, then?" she challenges.

His response is a dry, "Maybe I just really love my job."

Grace rolls her eyes. Can't help it. "Can't bear to let anyone else do it, even for a few days, more like."

"And again, we're not talking about _me_ , we're talking about _you_. So what about police officers?"

Frowning at the non sequitur, Grace asks, "What?"

"Did you learn your lesson there? Once bitten, twice shy?"

"Does it matter?" she asks, more flustered by the unexpected inquiry than she's prepared to admit.

"It might," Boyd says, tone languid, "if you met the right person."

Not for the first time since joining the CCU, Grace finds herself wondering if he's more aware of her complicated, conflicted feelings for him than she gives him credit for. It's not something she wants to think about, much less address in even the most oblique of ways. Again, she goes on the offensive with a sardonic, "And just when am I supposed to do _that_? The only police officers I ever get to spend more than a few minutes with are you lot. And fond as I am of him, Spencer's _far_ too young for me."

He continues to regard her with steady intensity as he says, "Spencer's not the only male police officer down in the bunker."

"No," Grace allows, "there's Jones, Miller and O'Hagan. Oh, and Wilson, of course."

"And me."

It takes a concerted effort of will to keep her voice light as she agrees, "And you."

"So… what? I'm too young for you, as well?"

The conversation is not going as she anticipated, which isn't altogether unusual, given the complex but very different ways in which they both think, but she's not sure it's heading in a direction she feels strong enough to cope with. Not after so much recent emotional upheaval. She falls back on humour, saying, "Hardly. Though you _were_ still at school when I was an undergraduate."

"Only _just_ , Grace," Boyd says, eyebrows raised. "Besides, it wouldn't have mattered. I was a precocious young man."

"I bet," she chuckles. It's difficult to picture him as the tall, lanky teenager he must have been, but it's not the first time she's tried. "Anyway, the whole thing's irrelevant. I'm very happily single, thank you very much."

"Are you?"

The pointed question catches her by surprise. He's impudent to the point of rudeness when he wants to be, Grace knows, but he's not given to the voluntary discussion of private matters – his own, or anyone else's. Not sure how to react, she simply shrugs her shoulders and asks, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Days like this?" Boyd suggests. "Don't you ever think how much better they'd be if there was someone to…"

"What?" she mocks. "Give me a hug and tell me everything's going to be all right?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Only half-joking, Grace says, "That's the trouble with being female, Boyd. The moment you pass fifty, you become completely invisible to members of the opposite sex."

"Well, that's not entirely true, is it?" he challenges, reaching for his coffee. "You've had… gentleman friends. Since we've known each other, I mean."

"And that's what most of them were – just friends."

"' _Most_ of them'?"

"That's what I said," she retorts, not prepared to elucidate. Just as sharp, she adds, "Why the interest, all of a sudden? What on earth's got into you tonight?"

A wry bark of a laugh is followed by, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Grace."

"Try me."

Boyd looks down at the table for a moment, the fingers of his right hand drumming a light, barely-audible tattoo on the pale varnished wood. "I'm sorry the Greene case was so damned hard on you."

"That's not an answer," she points out, irritated by his evasion.

"It is," he contradicts, "in a way. It's… Oh, I don't know… I should go, leave you in peace to enjoy the rest of your evening."

Puzzled, intrigued, and infuriated all at once, she says, "Running away isn't your usual style."

"Let's call it… a strategic withdrawal. Before I say something really stupid."

"I'll never understand you," Grace tells him, watching as he gulps down the remainder of his coffee. "You're brave enough to deliberately goad a man pointing a loaded gun at you, but not to stand your ground and speak your mind to an old friend?"

Boyd puts his now-empty mug down quietly and with an inordinate amount of care. "Oh, just read between the lines, will you, Grace? 'Would you ever sleep with a colleague again?' 'What about police officers?' 'Am _I_ too young for you?' – it's not bloody rocket science, for fuck's sake."

Astounded, she stares at him, trying to make sense of the words. Surely he can't mean…? Can he…?

"It wasn't Keogh I risked getting killed for," he continues, voice rough, "it was _you_. Don't you get it?"

"No," Grace says, sharper and more defensive than she intends. "No, I don't think I do. What are you saying, Boyd? That you have… feelings… for me?"

"You don't have to sound quite so appalled," he snaps, standing up swiftly. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I should've just carried on keeping my damned mouth shut. But I thought… Oh, it doesn't matter what I thought. Thanks for the coffee."

For once, she moves faster than he does, reaching the door to the hall first and effectively blocking his escape route. Her mouth is dry and her heart is pounding, but she manages a forceful, " _No_. No, Boyd. You don't get to drop a bombshell like that and then just walk out."

He halts a couple of feet away from her, wide shoulders aggressively set beneath his leather jacket. "What do you expect me to say, Grace? I obviously made a mistake, and I'm sorry. Just forget about it."

"No," she repeats, refusing to retreat from… whatever it is that's happening. "I know you. You're no coward. Tell me what you were going to say."

For a moment she thinks he's going to roar at her – not for the first time in their acquaintanceship – but then his shoulders seem to slump. Far quieter than she expects, he says, "I just thought – stupidly – that maybe you had feelings for me, too."

"And that if I'd slept with a colleague once, I might be tempted to do it again?"

Boyd shrugs. "I wouldn't have phrased it quite like that… but essentially, yeah, I guess so. Jesus, I've well and truly fucked this up, haven't I? I knew coming over here tonight was a bad idea."

"Why did you, then?" Grace demands, a bewildering mixture of hope, confusion, and exasperation fuelling her annoyance with him.

"Because you were upset," he growls back, "and you obviously needed some help, why do you bloody think? I'm not the heartless ogre everyone thinks I am."

"Oh, I know _that_ ," she says, and then continues with forced and hard-won calm, "and the answer to your question is _yes_."

Boyd scowls at her, impatience clear. "What?"

"Yes," she admits, "despite everything, I might be tempted to do it again. For the right person."

"And…?" His dark brows draw sharply together. "Don't play games with me, Grace, I'm really not in the mood for it."

"Clearly."

"Well?"

"Well, _what_?"

"Oh, for God's sake…" He takes a visible deep breath. "All I've wanted to do from the moment your bag got snatched outside the damned court is do whatever I could to protect you. Emotionally, physically, whatever. I hated every minute of seeing you dragged through all those old, painful memories. If Taylor wasn't already dead…"

"You kill him yourself?"

"Don't mock me, Grace."

"Oh, I'm not," she says with a heavy sigh. "Boyd… Peter… I appreciate your concern for me, I really do – more than you probably realise, in fact."

"But…?" he prompts.

"But," Grace echoes, "I think you're confusing your protective feelings with… something else. You wouldn't be human if you didn't feel something for a friend going through a difficult time, but empathy, compassion, or whatever you want to call it, doesn't equal… attraction."

More than a hint of belligerence returns to Boyd's stance. "You think I don't know the bloody difference? That's not just deeply insulting, Grace, it's completely fucking absurd."

"Is it? When people go through stressful – "

"Oh, don't start with all the psychological bollocks," he interrupts, a hard edge to his voice. "You know your trouble? You can't just accept what people say, you have to analyse it all to within an inch of its bloody life. Well, I've got news for you, _Doctor_ – sometimes things really _are_ as simple as they first appear, and sometimes there really isn't some deep, complicated reason for why people feel the way they do. Sometimes things just _are_."

"Don't patronise me, Boyd."

"Believe me, Grace, I wouldn't bloody dare," he barks back, his infamous temper clearly rising. "Now, if you'd care to get out of my fucking way, I'll see myself out."

For a moment she's tempted to obey, to step aside and let him storm out, but, strangely, it's his anger that holds her in place. His anger, and what it reveals about the depth and sincerity of his feelings, confused though they may be. He takes a single step forward, halving the distance between them, and though his size and sheer physical presence is every bit as intimidating as he obviously intends, Grace doesn't move. _Refuses_ to move. Looking up to stare him straight in the eye, she says, "'Carried on keeping your mouth shut'?"

Boyd's glare does not abate. "What?"

"That's what you said. 'I should've just carried on keeping my damned mouth shut'." She tilts her head, still studying him. "How long have you been keeping your mouth shut for? Days? Weeks? Months?"

He stares back at her for a long, strained moment. Then shakes his head. "Years, Grace. Bloody _years_. At least, it feels like it, sometimes. Waiting and watching, and hoping that maybe one day things would change and you'd realise…"

"What?" she asks, quieter now, and much less assertive. "That I'd realise _what_ , Boyd?"

"I don't know… That I'm not such a bad guy at heart? That you and I… That maybe if we tried we could… be more than just friends and colleagues…? Stupid things."

Unlike Boyd, Grace is not a natural gambler, but even she can recognise when it's worth taking a potentially huge risk to attempt to seize hold of a rare and easily-missed opportunity when it arises. Trying hard to keep her voice low and steady, she asks, "Have you ever considered the fact that you might not be the only one who's had thoughts like that?"

A slow shake of the head. "No."

"Maybe you should," she says, and now it's her turn to take a step forward, reducing the space between them to a scant couple of inches. Boyd looks down, she looks up, and for a moment it feels as if time has frozen and the world has stopped turning. Feels as if they are standing right on the very edge of a high cliff with dangerous, turbulent waters churning below them. Feels as if… as if for them it really is now or never.

-oOo-

"It shouldn't be this easy," she says, watching him basking in the bright rectangles of morning sunlight falling across the bed, "should it?"

Boyd turns his head just enough to look at her, his expression both amused and quizzical. "Why not?"

"Because," Grace starts, then pauses to consider her answer. "Because things are complicated. Because _we're_ complicated."

He stretches, the movement loose-limbed and indolent. "Speak for yourself."

She snorts, but she's not in the mood to argue. Rolling over onto her side, she traces her fingers down his upper arm, enjoying the feel of both his smooth, warm skin and the relaxed muscle beneath it. He watches her, calm and silent and contemplative, and she enjoys that, too. The surprising tolerance and easiness of him, the lack of tension and temper in him. She says, "You're different."

"Am I?" Mildy curious.

"Very," she confirms.

"And you like it?"

"I think I do, yes."

"Good." Boyd stretches again, and the light sheet covering his lower body moves, half-exposing one bare hip. She notices. He scratches idly at his short, brindled beard. "Do you think Spence would enjoy a few days sitting in my chair?"

Grace frowns. "Well, of course he would. Why?"

His answer is unhurried. "I was thinking about all that leave you pointed out I have owing to me. Maybe I'll take a few days off at the end of the week and join you wherever you end up going."

Pleased but cautious, she asks, "Really?"

"Why not? You didn't really think I was going to change my mind about the compassionate leave thing, surely?"

"I might have hoped…" she admits. "Won't it look a bit… suspicious… if we're both off at the same time?"

"So?" Boyd gazes at her for a moment before chuckling. "Christ, if you think they're not going to add two and two and come up with four the first bloody time they see us together, you're sadly underestimating your colleagues."

He's right, Grace realises. Maybe not the extended team, but certainly the people at the heart of it; yes, they will know immediately that something fundamental has changed between them. She's not sure if that worries her or not. "It doesn't bother you?"

Boyd looks vaguely perplexed. "Why would it? People can think what they bloody like. It's not as if there isn't already all sorts of scandalous gossip about us, is it?"

"You've heard those rumours, too, then," she says, wondering why she's surprised.

His answering grin is quick and savage. "Oh, I hear _everything_ , Grace."

He probably does, she thinks. Or, at least, much, much more than most people realise. He's a wily old fox. And an experienced and highly-successful detective. Moving closer to him, she places a gentle kiss on his nearest shoulder before asking, "Do you honestly think we can make this work? You and me?"

Boyd's answer is slow and considered. "I think… that we owe it to ourselves to try. Don't you?"

"But what if – "

"Stop," he says, emulating her by rolling over onto his side. Facing her, he continues, "You're far too fond of over-complicating things. We'll just… figure things out as we go along – which is exactly what most people end up spending their whole life doing."

Grace shakes her head. "You make it sound so simple."

"It _is_ simple. Most things are, really. In the end."

"I never took you for a philosopher, Boyd."

"I'm not," he says, sounding more than a touch wry, "thinking too much can drive you crazy."

"Should I be offended?"

"Not worth the effort," he tells her. "Not when there are much better things to do…"

There's something extremely persuasive about the gentle yet determined way he kisses her. Something bewitching about the warm caress of his bare skin against hers. The feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of him. Distinctive, masculine, and very, very seductive. To touch and be touched… it's been so long, and hell, it feels so damned good. She'd almost forgotten _how_ good, Grace realises, and that's… sad. She doesn't have time to reflect on it as Boyd moves above her, his intent every bit as obvious as his keen arousal. It's quicker, this time. Quicker, and maybe a little rougher. She likes it. Exults in the implied flattery of his enthusiasm, urges him on with soft words and hot kisses, and with sharp fingernails that dig hard into the solid flesh of his shoulders as he takes them both back to that primitive, desperate place where sensation and fulfilment are the only things that matter.

-oOo-

Seated at the round wrought-iron table situated on the little stone-slabbed patio outside the kitchen door, Boyd is finally still again. It's a relief. Wide-eyed, Grace watched him energetically bound through showering and dressing, and then thunder down the stairs in search of coffee and sustenance, unable to come anywhere close to sharing his boisterous approach to what should have been, in her mind at least, a lazy, leisurely Sunday morning. Tea and toast are about all she can face, despite how close it now is to midday, but she has no doubt her companion could – and _would_ – demolish a full English breakfast on top of what he's already consumed if given the opportunity. It seems that different though he is away from the pressures of work, some things prevail. Enthusiasm, energy, and restless curiosity chief among them.

"Lawn needs mowing," he comments as she sips her tea.

Putting down the china cup and glancing at the lawn in question, she says, "Feel free."

"Borders need digging over, too."

"As I said, feel free. There are tools in the shed."

"It was merely an observation. Gardening isn't my forte."

Grace nods. "I know; I've seen your garden."

"So you have," Boyd agrees after a momentary puzzled frown. "After the Dickson thing."

"'The Dickson thing'," she repeats, in a passable imitation of his languid tone. "Only you would describe it like that, Boyd. As if it was nothing."

Thoughtful brown eyes that appear almost hazel in the late morning sun regard her from the other side of the rusty garden table. "Well, I lived to fight another day, didn't I?"

"You were lucky," Grace tells him, not at all flippant. She found the faded scars from that terrible day just before midnight in the warm safety of her own bed and bedroom, and still recoiled from the horrifying memories. "Very lucky, in fact. I… _we_ were terrified you wouldn't make it."

If Boyd hears her momentary slip, he doesn't comment on it. "Only the good die young, Grace, haven't you heard?"

"Mm," she murmurs, not wanting to prolong the topic. A few gardens away, there are young children playing, their excited whooping and chattering somehow far more soothing than irritating. The ordinary soundtrack to an ordinary Sunday. The world hasn't mysteriously changed overnight just because they –

"When?" she asks, interrupting her own thoughts. "You said it had been years. When did you realise that you… you know…"

"Fancied you?" he supplies helpfully. "Oh, that's easy. I remember the moment quite distinctly."

Grace narrows her eyes, not sure if he's teasing her. Amused though his expression is, however, she sees no hint of ridicule or artifice. "Well? Do tell."

"It was after the Debbie Britten case," Boyd says, stretching out his long legs. "When we moved offices for the first time? We all went in on the Saturday to pack stuff up ready to be transported on the Sunday, remember?"

She does, but without much clarity. Certainly doesn't remember anything remarkable about the day. "Well, yes, of course, but…"

Boyd treats her to the full force of the captivating grin that she's always felt should really belong to a mischievous schoolboy, not to a mature senior police officer. "You were wearing some sort of dark green legging things. Very… tight."

She tries hard not to wince. "We were spending the entire day shifting stuff around – what was I _supposed_ to wear?"

"Are you blushing, Grace?" he inquires. It's a redundant question – her face feels like it's on fire. "There was quite a lot of bending over, as I recall."

"Oh, God…"

"It wasn't a complaint. I thoroughly enjoyed the view."

"All right, all right," she grumbles, "you can stop now. I wish I'd never asked."

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and crossing his legs at the ankles, Boyd surveys her for a moment before inquiring, "What about you? When we were talking in the middle of the night, you said…"

"Do you really want to know?" she asks. "Or do you just want me to stroke your ego?"

That wicked grin again. "You can stroke any part of me you like, Grace."

"Incorrigible."

"And you like it," Boyd counters.

"I'm beginning to," she admits. Considering the original question, she continues, "I don't know… I always thought there was something… a bit of a spark… between us. Right from the start, I mean. Don't you think?"

A slight shrug. "Guess so. Doesn't answer my question, though."

She's not prepared to tell him the truth. Maybe one day, but not yet. Not prepared to tell him that the moment she walked into his then squad room to provide some kind of psychological insight into the dark motives of a man who had raped, murdered, and dismembered three teenage girls she was well on the way to being smitten. DCI Boyd, the former _enfant terrible_ of Wandsworth CID, yet to be chosen to command the embryonic Cold Case Unit. Deep dark eyes and a devastating smile coupled with a sharp mind and an explosive temper. An attractive, fascinating, frustrating man. She sniffs. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don't think I ever had a moment quite like yours."

"That _is_ disappointing," Boyd says, but though he continues to watch her with quiet intensity, he doesn't push further. She's grateful for it.

"So here we are," she says, when it becomes clear he's not going to say anything. It's an inane thing to say, but she's not sure how else to advance the conversation.

"Indeed."

He's not overly loquacious, Grace knows, but rarely has she noticed it more. Fiddling with the teaspoon abandoned beside her cup and saucer, she sighs. "Look, if you're having second thoughts…"

"I'm not."

"You just seem… quiet."

"I'm a quiet sort of guy," Boyd says, and at her sceptical look he continues, "I _am_. Work's different."

"Why?" she asks, her curiosity piqued.

He gives her what she can only describe as an askance look. "Oh, come _on_. Why do you think? I'm under an enormous amount of bloody pressure at work, Grace. I'm the one who has to make all the decisions, I'm the one who has to get results and keep on getting them, and when things go wrong, _I'm_ the one with his head on the block. Don't misunderstand me – it's what I signed up for when Christie offered me the damned job, and I'm not complaining, but… well, it's not always easy trying to juggle everything."

"I suppose… we don't always appreciate that," she allows.

"It's not your job to," is his quick reply, "but sometimes I wish…"

"What?" Grace prompts.

Boyd frowns, as if he's not sure what to say next. Removing his hands from his pockets, he runs the long fingers of one hand through his tousled grey hair. "I don't know… I suppose it's that old adage about giving a dog a bad name, isn't it? My reputation precedes me, as they say. People expect me to behave a certain way; to react to things in a certain way."

"By 'people', I assume you mean me?"

He shakes his head. "Not just you, Grace."

"But…?"

"But…" he starts, then stops. Looks up at the cloudless blue sky for a moment. "This… us… It's not going to work if you're perpetually expecting me to be someone I'm not."

"I could say the same thing, you know," Grace replies. She regards him quietly for a few moments before adding, "How many times do you make jokes about psychologists when you're talking to me? But a psychologist is only a part – a very small part – of what and _who_ I am."

Boyd returns his gaze to her. "Touché."

"I'm not trying to be clever," she continues, not wanting him to misunderstand, "or difficult, and I'm not trying to undermine how you feel, but it seems to me… Well, quite frankly, it seems to me that if we're going to attempt to have any kind of… romantic relationship… we need to be prepared to take some time to learn about each other. About who we _really_ are, I mean. Put aside our preconceptions, and explore all the things we don't know about each other."

"You know, that actually makes some kind of sense."

"For a psychologist?"

"Your words, not mine," he says.

She gazes at him again, letting the seconds tick by before saying, "Tell me something I don't know about you."

He looks bewildered. "Such as?"

"I don't know," Grace says, looking around for inspiration and finding none. A siren wailing in the distance provokes a sudden influx of thoughts and ideas that smoothly follow on from one another. "I know you've lived in London for most of your life, but where were you born?"

"Lewannick," Boyd says promptly, "Cornwall. Close to Bodmin Moor."

"Really?" she asks, genuinely surprised. In none of her occasional mild speculations has she ever cast him as a Cornishman. In fact, nowhere in the West Country has ever crossed her mind in relation to him.

"Really," he confirms. "My father was from Scotland, but my mother's family have lived in the village for generations. Still do, in fact."

"My father was from Dunboyne, near Dublin," she tells him, a fond smile curving her lips as she remembers the wiry, slender man in question. "He was a merchant seaman originally, but he had a bad accident when I was just a baby, and never worked again."

"That must have been hard for the family."

Grace nods. "It was. I had two brothers and a sister. My poor mother worked every hour under the sun to keep us fed and clothed. I think that's what killed her, in the end."

"Tell me something else," Boyd says after a pause, "something a little more cheerful."

Trawling her memories, Grace smiles again. "When I was nineteen, I broke my arm falling off my boyfriend of the time's scooter. We were going to Blackpool to see the lights."

"Vespa or Lambretta?"

"Vespa."

"The 'sixties, eh?" Boyd says, with a rueful grin that implies corresponding memories of a long gone, but far from forgotten era. "What was his name?"

Grace doesn't have to think about it. "Frank. Frank Latham. He settled down and married a girl from Leeds in the end, I believe."

"You and me," he says, startling her with the enforced change in the conversation's direction, "it could work, Grace. I know it could."

She stares at him for a long moment, weighing up her reply. In the end, she nods. "It could… if we both tried our best to _make_ it work."

"Have dinner with me," he presses on. "Tonight, at my place. I'll cook something."

"You can cook?" she says in feigned astonishment, unable to resist a gentle jibe.

Boyd doesn't rise to it. "Better than you, probably."

"We'll see," she tells him, her haughtiness quite deliberate. Then she asks, "Did you mean it? About taking a few days off this week?"

He nods. "Yeah… as long as you don't bugger off to France. I hate France. With a passion. Don't tell Stella."

"What about Italy?" Grace inquires, a little fearful of the reply.

" _Amo l'Italia_."

She relaxes. "Well, that's a relief. We have one thing in common, at least."

 _\- the end -_


End file.
